


Let All London Be Agreed

by prettybirdy979



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Darkish Sherlock, Inspired by Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say no good deed goes unpunished. </p><p>Sherlock's sure of it now</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let All London Be Agreed

**Author's Note:**

> So one day this week I was operating on four hours sleep (for REASONS) and 'No Good Deed' from Wicked came on. Somehow my mind linked it to Sherlock.
> 
> This is the result. It is NOT a happy fic- if you know the song, you'll know why. Heed the warning!
> 
> Massive thanks to Interrosand, who looked this over and helped with the title.

‘John! John!’

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. John wasn’t supposed to have been hurt; John wasn’t supposed to have done _anything_ but stand there and watch his arrest.

But then he’d gotten himself arrested too and Sherlock had replanned. A hostage situation, getting them away and John safely in the clear.

And then…

‘Shoot him!’ The Chief Superintendent had called and one nervous office had done so, over Lestrade’s pained cry. John had jerked at the shot but kept running and they’d gotten away.

Until John had all but collapsed in the alleyway they were in now. Sherlock found the wound with ease and was using his scarf and the edge of John’s jacket to apply pressure, being unable to get his own off over the handcuffs.

‘Come on John, wake up.’

John blinked his eyes open. ‘You have to get these off.’ He rattled the handcuffs. ‘Sherlock, you gotta get away.’

‘No, not without you.’

‘It’s you they want. I’ll be fine.’ Sherlock pressed onto the wound harder and John flinched. ‘I will be.’ He lied again.

‘Oh God no.’ _Lestrade_ said and Sherlock looked up to meet the eyes of his (former? Maybe?) friend. ‘John-’

‘You have to get him out of here, Greg. Please.’ John begged. ‘Please.’

Lestrade dropped to his knees beside them. ‘John, I can’t-’ Sherlock could hear the sound of sirens, and Lestrade’s presence was enough to tell him the police were coming to arrest him but he found it wasn’t worth thinking about.

‘I won’t mention you did anything, Sherlock can get out of handcuffs. Please.’

‘I’m not leaving you.’ Sherlock snapped. He didn’t care that Moriarty was still out there, he could barely care that he was going to be arrested. John was more important.

But Lestrade nodded and pulled out a key. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He whispered and unlocked their handcuffs. Then he seized Sherlock around the waist and dragged him away as the flashing lights of police cars appeared in their alleyway.

‘No, no! John! Lestrade, let me go!’

But Lestrade, with a strength Sherlock hadn’t known he had, ignored both his desperate cries and his struggles and continued to drag him away.

‘Body!’ A faint and unfamiliar voice called from the alleyway as they emerged onto the street at the other end. ‘Looks like Watson; good riddance.’

Sherlock growled and struggled harder, desperate to get to his friend and...and _kill_ the man who had dared to say that.

‘Sherlock, no.’ Lestrade whispered and threw him forcibly against a wall, holding him there. ‘Run. For God’s sake, run.’

He shook his head. ‘John… I can’t. John.’ Sherlock slowly realised he was crying but couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Lestrade placed a hand on his cheek and wiped away the tears. A part of Sherlock pondered on the almost fatherly gesture but the rest didn’t care right now. ‘I know you’re innocent Sherlock. But they don’t care… Please, for John’s sake. Run. I’ll make sure he’s okay but you _can’t be here_.’

‘The police did this.’ Sherlock growled. ‘They _did_ this.’

Something in Lestrade’s eyes hardened. ‘I know. I know. But _run_ damn you.’ He stepped back even as Sherlock heard approaching footsteps. ‘Run!’

The tone of voice was enough. Sherlock ran.

He only looked back once, just before he turned out of sight, to see two officers forcing Lestrade to his knees. One of them kicked him and Sherlock nearly turned back.

But Les-Greg’s voice crying for him to run echoed in his head and he resisted the urge. He ran, disappearing into the streets of London he knew better than any other soul could. No one would find him.

Not until he wanted to be found.

********

The best part about Mycroft’s job was the fact he was rarely ever home. Thus Sherlock found himself hiding in Mycroft’s office as the dawn’s light crept over it, secure in the knowledge his brother had just left and would not be back home for hours. The television was on, its background noise only there to help him focus.

Not that he needed help. All he could do was focus. Focus on the blood on his hands; on the image of John lying dying in an alleyway; and of Greg on his knees, under arrest because of _him_.

He had done this. He’d thought himself cleverer than Moriarty and now... And now his friends, his John were suffering for it.

Oh God John. Was he even alive, was he even still breathing, was he still existing? A world without John was impossible to imagine but somehow Sherlock was only moments away from imagining it. His blood was on Sherlock’s hands, both literally and metaphorically.

And it had been the police who had put it there.

He was angry at Moriarty, was going to enjoy killing him and _ending_ this.

But he was _furious_ at the police, the people he’d helped for _years_ who’d just kil-attacked the best man Sherlock knew. He had jumped through their hoops to solve their puzzles, and this was how they repaid him?

Repaid _John_. Oh God John.

 _‘-Lestrade has just died in detainment.’ S_ herlock turned in a fluid motion and all but pounced on the remote, turning the volume up.

 _‘Just to repeat,’_ the dull woman said, _‘our breaking news. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade has been killed in police detainment overnight. Preliminary reports suggest he was killed by another prisoner.’_

_‘Lestrade was under arrest for his role in assisting the escape of fugitive ‘Consulting Detective’ Sherlock Holmes who was involved in a police shootout last night. Holmes was under arrest for his involvement in the kidnapping of two children but during the arrest he was able to obtain a firearm which he used to shoot at two police officers and take a man hostage before escaping. The hostage was later recovered but is in a critical condition. It is believed Holmes was responsible for the man’s injuries.’_

_‘The public are warned that Holmes is armed and extremely dangerous. Sightings should be report-’_

Sherlock threw the remote at the television, causing the television to fall down with an awful crashing noise. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t need to hear more, he knew what had happened. The life expectancy of a police officer in gaol wasn’t very long, not without some form of protection- the kind that clearly Scotland Yard had decided Greg wasn’t worthy of.

Vaguely the fact he was now sitting on the floor registered with him but it wasn’t a priority. Instead all he could see was Greg as he had last seen him, begging Sherlock to flee.

 _I fled and it cost you your life._ He thought viciously as he glanced down at his hands. _Just more blood. One more disaster of my own making._

‘Not much cop, this caring lark.’ Sherlock found himself echoing. He had no idea why he was speaking aloud, only that he couldn’t bear _not_ to speak aloud. ‘You cared and you’re _dead_ and it’s all on me.’

Was he talking to Greg? John? Did it matter?

Only… ‘But John is not dead.’ He whispered as the rest of the news report filtered into his mind. He ignored their denunciation of him and focused on the words ‘critical condition’.

John was _alive_.

*********

Sneaking into his hospital room was easy, barely worth a fraction of his brain power. Even with the police officers guarding John’s door.

But Sherlock froze when he saw that John was handcuffed to his bed. Something inside him broke then; or maybe broke further. He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think.

It took him only one stride to cross to John’s side and lean over him. Sherlock grabbed his unrestrained hand- John’s left- and held it tightly. His other hand brushed John’s hair from his face as he ran desperate eyes over his friend, memorising each breath and movement and just drinking in the sight of John _alive_.

Slowly the guilt crept in, while he examined the bandages. ‘I did this.’ He whispered to John, gently placing his free hand on the bullet wound. ‘ _I_ did this.’

John didn’t reply. Sherlock found himself placing a soft kiss to his forehead. ‘I will get you out of this. I promise, I will get you out of this.’

Outside one of the guards coughed and rage surged through Sherlock. He glared at the door but he didn’t have time to do anything… he needed to leave.

He turned back to John. ‘I will save you. And I promise, I’ll never put you in this situation again. You will be safe… and they will all _pay_. I am going to _burn_ them for this.’

Another gentle kiss and Sherlock forced himself to release John’s hand. ‘I promise.’ He told the silent room and left.

********

Moriarty was easy to track down, he came when invited. He didn’t even realise that Sherlock wasn’t playing his little games anymore; that Sherlock no longer cared… or had anyone _left_ to care about.

Sherlock relished the look of surprise on his face when he shot him without saying a word.

Sherlock had no words anymore.

********

_‘Scotland Yard? Are you listening?’ Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of the camera, a live stream that had been linked to every news organisation possible. It wasn’t fully clear what building he was on, but behind him the skyline of London was visible; the Thames glistering in the midday sun with the London Eye distant but recognizable to his right. He was wearing his distinctive coat and scarf._

_But they were both covered in dried blood._

_'Don’t bother tracing this signal, I’ll be long gone before you can.’ He was staring at the camera, an unbreaking glare that still seemed able to look into the viewer’s soul._

_'I have a message, for those who call me a freak and say I am a monster.’ He looked over his shoulder watching the streets for a long moment before turning back to the camera. ‘If I am a monster, it is one of your own making. You have called me dangerous, you have accused me of death and destruction. And if that is what you want...’_

_‘Then I will oblige.’_

_Sherlock raised his hands as he spoke, a small but pained smile on his face. ‘So let all London be agreed. I’m wicked through and through...’ He sounded a note away from singing and he trailed off with a broken sob before lowering his arms. He took a deep breath, mouthed a name and closed his eyes._

_Then reopened them, his face suddenly emotionless. ‘And if you want a villain-’_

_Behind him, a fireball suddenly appeared in a spot just beyond the London Eye. Then the sound of the explosion reached him and overwhelmed the camera’s speakers for a long moment._

_He moved forward, until only his face was visible and smirked- an expression full of anger, pain and a tiny hint of delight. ‘-then I will give you a villain.'_

**Author's Note:**

> I believe Sherlock was standing on Tower 42- [this view](http://www.skyscrapernews.com/images/pics/1002WestEndfromTower42_pic1.jpg) might help if you need it.


End file.
